Elton John
The Fox

I know many people who flaunt their lack of culture from the living room of their Ikea-catalog studio apartment, who boast many gay friends "because in gay clubs there's always the best music and they don't try to hit on your girlfriend," who buy books by the kilo in supermarkets and who have only ever listened to the greatest hits of U2, Pink Floyd, and Queen. I know fascist-like people who wave hot-dogs like delusional truncheons to the sound of Manowar, oblivious to the fact that their world of leather, studs, and Harley-Davidsons was copied from the world of American gay hustlers over 35 years ago. And it's thought-provoking that die-hard soccer fans with neo-Nazi regurgitations so attentive to their sacred history don't know that, when their team wins, they sing a gay anthem born from the perverse mind of a certain Freddie Mercury.
Then there's that sly fox David Bowie. He represents for rock what Madonna has always been in the pop world. A lethal marketing machine precise as a scalpel. A chameleon disguised as a great artist. As false as Judas, his success is based on meticulously crafted insights: one day the Spiders from Mars, initially bi-sexual, then straight, the Tin Machine… And his schizophrenia, conceived as genius, is nothing more than a state of mind of the vainglorious army of his naive fans. But Bowie's mastery in constructing an ironclad credibility surrounded by a vague mysticism was not the same as the author of the album in question: Elton John.

Now become a sixty-year-old effeminate "fashion-victim," he was in reality a composer and performer of absolute greatness, producing sensational albums especially in the early seventies, rich in pathos and brilliant melodic insights. Pearls like "Tumbleweed Connection" or "Madman Across The Water" are alone worth Bowie's entire discography. But Elton John also went to "Buona Domenica" in 1993, for example, shocking his stunned fans with an indecent performance between Jerry Scotti and Umberto Smaila. Bowie, of course, would never have done it.

Elton never had the sex appeal of Mick Jagger or the overwhelming energy of Freddie Mercury. He's short, ugly, wears a horrible toupee and in 1980, at the wonderful Central Park concert, he appeared in front of 500,000 fans dressed as Donald Duck. But he was great just the same. Behind his ridiculous glasses, his numerous masks, there has always been much, much substance. And a warm voice, a bit nasal, versatile and gritty. Of irreverent sweetness. In 1981, this album, titled "The Fox", was released, one of the most underrated of the English artist. I have always loved this album, so varied, cryptic, and direct at the same time.
At that time Elton John was a man experiencing a radical change in the music scene, sadly aware that he would never repeat the gigantic successes of the 70s. With an evidently manic-depressive personality, he attempted suicide twice after falling in love first with a girl and then with a boy. But despite this, he never loses the desire to bitterly laugh at himself, like the ugly duckling who knows he will never become a swan. "The Fox" is all of this, and sounds divine to our ears. Because Elton mixes vibrant rock tracks infused with gospel choirs and blues hints ("Breaking Down Barriers", "Heels Of The Wind"), creating captivating and never banal melodies, supported by excellent musicians: the knowledgeable touch of drummer Nigel Olsson and the "metallic" guitar of the very talented Ritchie Zito, to name the best; he invents a sui generis track like "Just Like Belgium", which sounds like a child waiting for the bell on the last day of school; oppresses with a melody that ambiguously flirts with disco, a sinister track that never seems to take off but captures you from the second listen on ("Nobody Wins"); surprises you with a slightly unpolished rock-blues piece ("Heart In The Right Place") but dominated by an excellent guitar contrasted, as in almost the entire album, by the never intrusive arrangements of James Newton Howard. The piece "Carla/Etude/Fanfare" is an isolated episode, a classical suite that then flows into the track I favor above all and one of my absolute favorites of Elton: "Chloe", which starts quietly but then melts into a chilling chorus, with counterposed choirs to masterful strings. A must-listen.
The harsh but unfinished "Fascist Faces", still enhanced by Zito's always sharp guitar, contrasts with the morbid sweetness of "Elton's Song", with lyrics penned by Tom Robinson, a representative of the openly gay new-wave movement. A boy in a college falling in love with a classmate. The impotence of declaring this feeling and the choice to live it in solitude (it wasn't as easy as today, it was still 1981...) convey distinctly claustrophobic feelings, with the help of the skilled minor chords Elton seems to prefer in these cases. Elton in the past was as funny as he was heartbreaking, and he is the living proof that perhaps detoxing from alcohol and cocaine might give you a few more years, but it can make you so clear-headed that you become aseptic if you write music professionally.
And so sweetly "alcoholic" is the track that closes the album. Elton becomes "The Fox", and like a fox, he knows very well that in certain cases he can't reach the grapes.
The good times have long passed. The glorious 70s will not return, and he shows us a wicked - but deep down sad - grimace on the cover. But he also knows very well that he remains famous enough to afford to enter "Studio54" and down liters of whiskey with his friends without worrying about waiting in line. And maybe even catches a handsome young New Yorker. Elton is so human, as much as Bowie is presumptuous, arrogant, and false. But there's always something worse, I suppose. I know people who listen to Placebo.